The stuff inbetween
by MoonlightTaylor
Summary: These are just some short drabble/stream-of-consciouness/plot bunny things that don't need more working out, but don't quite deserve to gather dust on my laptop forever. Chapter 1: Sam and autonomy. Chapter 2: Tag to 12x02.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: So these are just some weird stream-of-consciousness/drabblish things that I have laying around or feel like writing sometimes. No idea if anyone is interested but hey... here they are anyway. May add to, may not. Are probably all disconnected and strange. Enjoy, anyway if you read._

 **1\. Sam and autonomy**

Maybe that was why he fought so hard. Why he bucked and rebelled and fought against control. Maybe, even from a young age he had felt it, felt how little choice he had. Forced into a life he didn't want. Nudged and watched and morphed by a 1000 forces, by hundreds of possessed people who wore the kindest smile. How often had it all been taken away from him? How often had the choice been ripped from his bare and bloody hands?

He could almost hear the voices of everyone, everything that had stooped in and taken away his choice, his autonomy, the grip on his own body, his own mind.

His own life.

They spoke.

Want to stop hunting? We'll kill your girl and force revenge on you.

We'll tell your brother all about you, because we know he won't tell you.

We'll possess you and make you do terrible things.

We'll take away your choice of life and death.

We'll take away your possibility for redemption.

We'll mould you when you're at your lowest and pollute you with the vilest of drugs.

We'll blame you when we push you and you fall.

We'll try to pollute you again, try to turn you into the weapon everyone has always wanted you to be.

 _There. That wasn't so bad, was it?_

We'll make giving in your only choice.

Then again, we'll kill with your hands. Destruct in your name. Rip and tear and crush what you love.

Strong enough to defeat the devil? We'll torture you for eternity, desecrate every part of your body and defile your very soul.

We'll take you back in pieces, whether you want us to or not.

We'll shove back your soul.

We'll haunt you even when your rid of us.

We'll breach your mind, tear at it and take away anyone that could help you hold your sanity.

We'll have you promise things and resent you for keeping them.

We'll give you a chance to do some good, hand it to you on a silver platter, then take it when it's almost done.

Want to die? We'll trick you, take away your choice over life and death.

We'll be in you again.

We'll use you again.

We'll kill friends with your hands, burn their eyes and souls.

We'll release you, and expect you to forgive us because that's what you do.

And when you get angry, we'll be affronted.

After all, you don't have a choice in what you feel. Not if it isn't what we want you to feel.

So maybe Sam fought to make his life his again. And he wouldn't stop doing it for the rest of his life.


	2. 12012

The air carries a strange chill, the kind born of humidity and darkness. Sweat cools on Sam's brow, his soaked shirt sticks to his back, unwilling to let go of goose-bumped skin. Only Sam's legs burn furiously, bandages rubbing burnt and broken skin raw. Everything aches and even picking up his head is becoming difficult.

It would be so easy just to give up.

There is nothing left to live for. Dean is dead. Cas is God-knows-where and the sun is back in its rightful place. These men of letters can help, they can save lives with their zeal and efficiency. To just give in, give them some names would be so easy. Would earn him some real food, maybe. Some painkillers…

But Sam still says no. Because what do these women of letters think they're doing here? Messing with private affairs, driven by some new-imperialistic ideal to change America. Fuckers. Sam will keep saying no, because other hunters don't deserve to go through this. They don't deserve to be kidnapped, tortured and drugged.

Because if these women had asked nicely, had pitted their plans before shooting Sam down, he may have listened.

It would be so easy to just give up.

There is nothing left to lose, though. There's no possible leverage that can get Sam to speak, no method of torture that can get Sam to give up. Inside, there's simply nothing left. Gone are the ideals, the love, the compassion and the grief. What's left is his core, cast-iron and dented beyond compare. Sure it's missing a few pieces, but it's functional as ever.

What these Women of Letters don't understand (what Lucifer understood, all too well) was that if you strip everything away from Sam, go down to his very basic settings, you'll get absolutely nowhere. All you'll get is his default setting; stubborn anger.

(Lucifer was smarter, he didn't break Sam a layer at a time, he broke the core right away, then played with the left-over pieces)

Sam can die here and the world will lose nothing. It will just be one obsessed, broken shell of a man poorer. But if he is going to die here, he's going to make damned sure that he gives his captors the hardest time of their lives. It is useless and spiteful (what, never seen a petty person before?), but it's all Sam has left.

It would be so easy to just give up. But really, where's the fun in that?

The door across from Sam opens. Toni steps in with clicking heels and a crisp, new pantsuit. Sam grits his teeth and clenches his fists against the obstinacy in his bones and the fury crawling under his skin. Heels click louder as they move up to Sam. Toni doesn't touch him (she rarely does, probably afraid to get her suit dirty) and she doesn't speak. She just stands there, as if waiting for Sam to say something.

Never one to deny a lady, Sam obliges.

"What are you waiting for? My first screw you of the morning?"

The air is still permeated by that underground chill, but Sam knows things will be heating up soon. In a strange, self-flagellating way, he's almost looking forward to it.


	3. Fan-based musings

_I swear I can see how a man can go crazy when he's told he's free. (Train; Will and the People)_

The fan turns lazily, vanes stirring the heavy air with each casual movement. The bunker is all but silent, each Winchester sits in their own silent solitude, remembering, thinking… _fearing_. Lying on the bed, arms behind his head, the silence seems suddenly stifling. It reminds him too much of the quiet of the basement he was kept in, alone with his thoughts until Toni came to interrupt him.

The silence, the fan… It's a little too reminiscent of another quiet room. One where Sam had bounced off the walls, high on demon blood and righteousness. Where he had hallucinated terrible things. Where he had seen mom. None of it was real then, and right now Sam can't help but see the parallels.

After all, somewhere deep down, Sam _knows_ this can't be real. None of this can. Because really? Getting out of that basement he can imagine, Dean being miraculously still alive (even with the sun proud and happy in the sky), that he can deal with. It wouldn't exactly be the first time.

But Mom? That's a wild card. It's simply too good to be true.

People don't just come back from the dead, not without a price. Sam learned that the hard way. Good things don't come to those who wait, they don't come to those who have faith and they certainly don't come to the Winchesters. Ever.

And _that_ is the crux of the problem. It's all too good, too perfect, too flippin' dandy. Good plus good does not equal Sam's life. Even Lucifer knew that. What was it he said? _It had to be a mess Sam, or you wouldn't believe it was your life._

Lucifer was right then and he's still right, now. This happiness, this familial perfection, can in no conceivable way be Sam's real life. Toni must have drugged him again, gotten him to another place he felt safe, another place where he would let his defences down and spill everything.

The fan never falters in its circle, never skips an airy beat. Light feet walk past the door, slippered, trying to be quiet. It's Mom. Or the mom in this hallucination anyway. Slowly, Sam takes his arms from behind his head and raises his hands to his face. He can't see the fan now, only his own scarred skin. A scabbing wound sits over an old scar, stone number two over stone number one. Lightly, Sam runs his thumb over the wound. Nothing changes, so he pushes. Delves, digs and shoves until blood drops onto his own face.

There. That's blood. That's pain. That's _real_.

Maybe it's not a dream after all. Maybe the world has finally decided to give Sam a break. He won't count on it though and he won't fight it. Not this time. No, this time the world can screw itself. Things are good. And if Sam still feels phantom fingers ghosting over his back, still feels a cattle-prod tearing at him and a flamethrower dancing at his feet, then that's fine. It doesn't matter if all of this is fake and he has to spend the rest of his (this) life avoiding Toni's favourite subjects, not if this is the life he gets.

Though he isn't sure God's still there to listen, though he isn't certain there's any point in wishing this is real, Sam finds he has to. Whatever this is, it's put hope back into his raggedy soul. _Hope_ : and that's kind of the whole point.

So, it's all fine.

Because, real or no, Sam's got something to live for again. And, real or no, that has to be enough.


End file.
